


Petit Four

by Coprolite



Category: B.A.P
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Multi, Prison Sex, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-28 22:38:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11427690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coprolite/pseuds/Coprolite
Summary: After half a year of searching, Youngjae finally settles for a job as a teacher at a prison two hours away.





	Petit Four

**Author's Note:**

> A petit four (plural: petits fours, also known as mignardises) is a small bite-sized confectionery or savoury appetizer. The name is French, petit four, meaning "small oven". 
> 
> teacher!au; prison!au; threesome!; etc. 
> 
> Trigger warnings implied.  
> 
> 6200+ words. 

Daehyun didn’t like flowers, but Junhong did. So when Youngjae saw the daisies Junhong had pressed and dried inside his favorite fantasy novel out in the open, he had an inclination something was amiss. The flattened petals laid scattered on the concrete floor.

 

The two of them sat at opposite corners of the room, three tables separating the pair. Junhong sat with his arms crossed over his chest as his eyes reread the same passage over and over again in his book. While Daehyun had thrown his legs over the table, eyes closed. His breathing was even and Youngjae would have thought he was asleep if his eyes hadn’t drawn open when he stepped into the room.

 

Youngjae makes his way towards Junhong, handing him the next book in the ongoing series he had begun only a few days prior.

 

“Book number four, as promised,” he opens it to the dedication page. “This one was made out to his mother who passed away during the editing process. When you finish, I’d love to hear your thoughts. I heard that some things were changed due to the unexpected death,” he slides the book across the wooden table.

 

Youngjae doesn’t ask Junhong about what may have transpired between him and Daehyun. After two months, he’s learned better than to prod. Prison has no privacy and he’d hate to strip away what little secrets the inmates could afford. This was probably why Youngjae didn’t know what crime Junhong was convicted of so many conversations later.

 

And while Youngjae learned the prison norms quickly, he doubts whether or not he’ll ever truly adjust being a teacher for the system. He once reported to the guards the obvious bruising on Junhong’s face, but they only shrugged their shoulders. Junhong never complained, so Youngjae adopted the same attitude.

 

He still remembers the tone his mother had used to end their phone call when he finally informed her that he had found a job. Even now he can vividly imagine that tight lipped smile of hers, that in between frown and feigned indifference. She said, “that’s nice, sweetie,” but, really, she meant “dear god.” He expected this, though.

 

His parents hadn’t been supportive of his teaching degree. That much was obvious. He was just piling on the disappointment when they learned the only job he could find after almost half a year of searching was in a prison (although he prefers to call it a correctional facility). Most of the people seemed nice enough to Youngjae—at least the ones he dealt with. The classes with him were optional so he was only exposed to a very small percent of the institution’s population. Plus, a guard stood by during each session. Maybe that helped.

 

Aside from Daehyun, everyone else made it almost worth the two hour commute. When the lesson began, Youngjae’s small class of twenty men sat up straight, beginning their notetaking. He’s halfway through providing a review on slopes and tangents for their derivatives chapter when he notices Daehyun’s pen is placed behind his ear rather than copying down theorems.

 

Youngjae may not know much about Junhong’s past, but he knew everything about Daehyun’s. It’s all some of the men ever talked about, including the guards. Even prisons have their own celebrities, he supposes.

 

When class draws to an end, the men empty out, monitored by the guard. Junhong stands near Youngjae as he erases the white board and caps his multitude of markers. He’s hugging his newly gifted book to his chest. Little things like this remind Youngjae how young Junhong is in comparison, despite the other’s six foot stature.

 

“Thanks for staying behind, Junhong. I baked too many cookies again and thought you could help me finish them off,” he brings out the saran wrapped stack of snickerdoodles from his bag.

 

Junhong knew he was lying. It's a skill you learn on the inside. It wasn't any social cues that led Junhong to this accurate conclusion, however—you just start to assume everyone's a liar. And it's true. But Youngjae lied and lied to him all the time despite this.

 

They sit together at an empty table, eating cookies Youngjae had bought from a bakery earlier that morning. The guard hangs back silently by the exit. Youngjae offers him a cookie, to which he doesn't respond. Instead keeping a steely gaze on the white wall across from him.

 

Out of the dozen cookies Youngjae brought, Junhong eats eleven and a half. Every time he answers back to Youngjae during their conversation, crumbs threaten to fall out of his full mouth. They're all gone within five minutes.

 

“You really liked the cookies, huh? What should I bake for you next?” Youngjae smiles, rolling the used saran wrap into a ball and stuffing it into his coat pocket.

 

The bakery will be selling princess cakes tomorrow.

 

“I'm thinking about baking a cake. How about I bring you some?” Youngjae says this but then considers how Junhong needs more vitamins and nutrients than pastries can offer. But it fills him up and that's all that matters right now.

 

“I’d really like that, Mr. Yoo,” Junhong replies, thumbing the pages of his book. He runs his finger along the leather binding.

 

Youngjae clears his throat.

 

“Youngjae,” Junhong corrects, lifting his eyes up from the table. His cheeks redden slightly.

 

“Well, for a tall guy like you, I doubt you get enough food from the cafeteria,” Youngjae jokes.

 

“Yeah,” Junhong mumbles.

 

He's thin, a lot thinner than typical guys at his height. There are dogs heavier than him. And without Youngjae bringing him snacks, he might worry about little chihuahuas outweighing him soon. He complained to the guards concerning this before, too, but they just told him that cafeteria spats aren't a part of their job description.

 

(“He’s being bullied,” Youngjae had insisted, hands balled up. “You’re supposed to keep watch on the inmates,” he took a deep breath. “Can’t you at least make sure he’s not getting his lunches taken from him?”

 

The guard pinched the bridge of his nose, “Just be happy that’s all they’re doing to him.”

 

“He’s a punching bag!” Youngjae raised his voice.

 

“Yes, but things could be worse. Don’t you agree?”

 

And Youngjae did.)

 

He looks much better now.

 

Youngjae digs deep into his pockets and pulls out tokens for the vending machines he had acquired earlier. He takes Junhong’s hand and wraps his long fingers around the small silver pieces. He looks to the clock and sees he has five minutes left before he is to be escorted off the premises. He tilts his head, “Treat yourself to a bag of chips or something. I’ll see you tomorrow. Enjoy the book, Junhong.”

 

Another guard appears in the room, gesturing for Youngjae to stand up and follow him. He squeezes Junhong’s shoulder before leaving. Outside the door is a hall which leads to one part of the prison. Amongst all the pallid grey hues is the orange jumpsuits of the men in their cells.

 

Youngjae has to pass by them to return to the holding area and such. He tries his best to not make eye contact with any of them as he walks through, unless they are one of his students. He spots Daehyun on his cot, lying down and legs crossed. The sound of approaching footsteps causes him to look up from the pastel pink letter he was reading. There are other envelops scattered around his thin sheets.

 

Youngjae gives a meek wave to him.

 

Daehyun returns to his mail.

 

Over a slice of pie, Junhong had once revealed to him Daehyun’s postal situation—of how Daehyun received dozens of love letters every week, an amount liken to Santa around Christmas with hundreds of naughty kids pleading their cases. These were women desperately seeking the approval of a criminal and here Youngjae couldn't even get a girlfriend.

 

(He later looked into it and learned the word hybristophilia.)

 

He definitely has a lot of letters, Youngjae notes, although he doesn’t think he’s ever seen Daehyun have a single visitor.

 

Youngjae gathers his belongings from the rental locker, taking back his wallet, keys, and backpack. He hoists the book bag up onto his shoulders. Stepping outside, he squints from the sun’s overbearing rays. He brings a hand to block the light, shading his face in the dark silhouette of his palm.

 

The long drive back ends when he arrives home at four pm. From four to twelve and two bags of instant noodles later, Youngjae has sent just about twenty emails and a half (one is still a draft). By the time he crashes at midnight, he’s thoroughly sick of rereading his résumé. He falls asleep to thoughts about job recommendations and prior work experiences. Nightmares; he has nightmares.

 

In the morning, Youngjae eats his daily twenty-five cent breakfast (excluding the water bill cost to heat his cup of noodles). The meal of which some of the soup spills onto his white shirt, staining it a light beef broth. He exchanges it for another similar shade of eggshell from his wardrobe.

 

He takes notice of how his closet has expanded in the last few months to meet the prison dress code. Visitors aren’t allowed to wear certain colors to prevent possible misunderstandings. Youngjae doesn’t own any orange anymore. It’s a shame, Youngjae thinks, it had been one of his favorites.

 

Green—that was the color of the princess cake before it disappeared into the white bakery box. The price was something he didn’t want to think about, though. He hopes it isn’t some indecipherable mush after the trip in his car’s front passenger seat.

 

Later though, the pastel marzipan looks the same as it did behind the display case, albeit less inherently pretty given the sullen backdrop.

 

“This looks amazing, Miste—” Junhong receives a look, “—Youngjae. Thank you,” he says, eyes hidden beneath his bangs. “I really appreciate you sharing this with me.”

 

Junhong’s words cause Youngjae’s posture to straighten, “You’re welcome,” he responds. “By the way, your hair is getting a bit long. You should consider visiting the facility’s barber,” he moves Junhong’s hair aside for him. “Are you ready for a slice now? You can have as much as you’d like. Just promise to leave me a piece, okay?”

 

Youngjae licks his lips as he slices through the cake with a plastic spoon.

 

The purple of Junhong’s bruised eye clashes with the cake’s color. But the way he speaks to Youngjae about the events in book three of the fantasy series is as sweet as the cake’s jam. This is the loudest Junhong’s voice ever gets. However, that probably isn’t saying much as Youngjae still has to lean in closely to get the gist of his words.

 

He loves how the story is about a street urchin struggling to survive in the decrepit town of a steampunk-esque village. The way in which the journey from unwanted vagrant without a real home transforms into that of a man traveling with a band of other tossed aside people in some ragtag family. Their adventures are side-quests leading them to discover the source of the plague cursing surrounding towns.

 

Junhong takes out the dandelion he used to bookmark a page and points to his favorite line in the novel: and thus punctuated another adventure for the six of them.

 

Youngjae listens to his hushed words, leaning in closer to hear every subtle nuance, up until it’s time to leave.

 

Before Youngjae walks out the giant main front doors, he delivers to a guard the last bit of the cake Junhong promised to keep untouched. “Thanks for making an exception for the cake, Lee. Here’s your slice.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” he waves his hand. “Just keep the food smaller than a plate in the future,” he takes the box, “You’re spoiling that boy, you know that? The other fellas call him a teacher’s pet,” he states.  

 

Youngjae purses his lips, “Well, he’s my student—”

 

“Criminal,” Lee retorts. “He’s not some university student, Yoo. He shouldn’t be treated as such,” his breathing is labored, the result of too many cigarette packets later. His navy blue uniform strangles his body, the buttons hardly holding themselves over his protruding gut.

 

Even so far from the prison population, he can still hear the shouting and yelling in the background of their conversation.

 

“He’s just a kid,” Youngjae argues back, his jaw tightens.

 

Lee shakes his head, “He’s like, what, twenty years old? He was tried as an adult, found guilty by the court. Do you even know what he’s in prison for, Yoo?”

 

Youngjae stammers, palms sweating, “It doesn’t matter what he’s in for. He’s serving his time and being rehabilitated.”

 

“You don’t change into a better person after what he did. Look it up yourself if you don’t believe me.”

 

He chews on the insides of his cheeks, “Have a good day, Lee.”

 

Youngjae’s editing his résumé for the third straight hour, tapping away on his keyboard’s delete key every other second while typing. His laptop’s monitor faces him, illuminating his face slightly as the orange sunset breaks through his curtains, drowning him and his studio apartment in a sea of warm reds. His hands hover over the keyboard. He recalls back to what he and Lee had spoken about.

 

His fingers twitch, wanting to instinctively type something into the search bar of his browser. He closes his laptop shut and buries his face into his hands. And one second later he has Google pulled up again with a specific name entered in.

 

His pinky sits awaitingly upon enter.

 

This won’t change anything, Youngjae thinks to himself. If he can find it on the internet then it’s just public knowledge. He’d be ignorant to refuse the information. Nothing will change.

 

Junhong will be Junhong: the boy who enjoys quietly chatting with him after class about their favorite books.

 

There’s a brief loading time and then the search results pop up. Youngjae’s heart pauses when he sees Junhong’s disheveled mug shots pop up along with the news articles. The dark circles under his eyes encompass most of his face, draining the color out of his complexion and filling it with grey. His eyes are bloodshot and t-shirt slightly torn, as if he had been in a fight. That’s what Youngjae gets from a good long five seconds of staring at the thumbnails. He scrolls right past them, hiding it out of view.

 

His gaze darts to the first link in the results; there, the headline with the word murder in bright blue is ready for him to click. He stares at that one phrase for however long it takes before he snaps out of it. He doesn’t want to read the rest of the article title. He closes the tab. He’s had enough. Body burning, flashes of heat pulsating through him.

 

Youngjae sends fifty emails out that night to possible employers, followed by some horrible nightmares.

 

During the next class session, Youngjae looks everywhere except in Junhong’s direction. His back faces the inmates as he writes practice problems on the whiteboard. He spends the day letting them try the equations on their own, intervening when necessary in the solving process.

 

Junhong has his brows furrowed as he works on answering the questions, similar to the others, with the exception of Daehyun, as usual. The man sits back in his chair, resting his head against his hand. He observes the class as Youngjae does.

 

When Youngjae looks at his paper, he sees in the messy scrawl of his writing the completed eight problems with all the correct notations. Daehyun rolls his eyes up and they look at each other. Daehyun sends him a half smile.

 

In the corner of his eye, Youngjae sees Junhong’s hand raise, asking for assistance. Youngjae takes the empty seat beside Daehyun and lectures him on his messy writing for a full two minutes, pointing at the paper, until Junhong’s hand drops.

 

Daehyun’s snickering about something during, ignoring the criticism. He stares at Youngjae with a smile and raised brow. The kind of look when a parent can tell their child is pretending to still believe in the tooth fairy for an extra dollar. He brings a hand up and pinches Youngjae’s cheek. He pulls away.

 

He keeps that damn condescending smirk as Youngjae goes through each problem for the class.

 

Afterwards, the room clears out, leaving only the monitoring guard and Junhong, who clutches onto his freshly finished book, alone with Youngjae. Junhong has a small smile, ready to discuss the novel with Youngjae after a good day of binge reading. Although, it’s not like there’s much else to do when you’re locked up from the outside world.

 

Before Youngjae’s arrival, Junhong hadn’t read much (nothing above grade level, perhaps). The first book Youngjae ever gave him was the fantasy novel. It had taken him longer to read than the average person. Their first few after class discussions came with a list of words Junhong had come across in the story that needed explaining.

 

He’d open up the book to pages held in place by the wild flowers which grew in the prison yard’s surrounding fence. Pointing to each word with a cautious finger, Youngjae told him their meaning and the context within the sentence.

 

(“He observed the moth dance around the flames of the fire, confusing it with the light of the stars. But this mistake is only ephemeral, as is the moth’s life. It burned and descended into the burning wood.” Junhong read aloud the passage, stumbling over his words occasionally.   

 

“Ephemeral?” Youngjae repeats. “It means something like fleeting or short-lived, like the lifespan of a flower. Something meant to last only for a little bit.”)

 

Eventually, Youngjae also provided him with a dictionary. From there, his reading comprehension increased exponentially. The guards told him that Junhong spent most of his time in the prison’s library, volunteering his time there, as well, as a helper.

 

Youngjae takes out the two donuts he got earlier that morning, “I already ate mine, so these are both yours,” he places them on the table in front of them for Junhong to take. The white glaze of the donut shines under the florescent lighting.

 

Youngjae looks up and notices Junhong’s bangs are still covering his eyes. He sighs and reaches his hand out to part them away again, but draws his hand back. Junhong blinks and looks at him.

 

“Get a haircut.”

 

Junhong looks down, “So I finished the book,” he unwraps the first donut, careful not to tear the plastic. “I looked at the dedication page of the book again. I realize what you mean by how the death of the author’s mother may have affected the storyline,” he nibbles at the end of his donut.

 

Youngjae bites his tongue on the word death and the way it resounds. His right leg shakes up and down as he sits next to him. He looks to the clock on the wall and then back at Junhong. This man in front of him has killed someone, just snuffed the life out of them.

 

Junhong continues, “I noticed—”

 

“Listen, Junhong, I unfortunately have to leave early today,” Youngjae interrupts, getting up from his seat. His chair screeches across the floor.

 

“Oh,” Junhong fiddles with his fingers. “Is everything okay?”

 

“Yes, everything’s fine.”

 

Junhong knows he’s a liar.

 

As Youngjae passes by the cells, eyes lowered to the ground, he hears Daehyun’s voice, “Someone’s leaving early today,” it floats to a melody, so sing-songy and irritating.  

 

Youngjae keeps walking.

 

And that’s how the next week seems to play out. Junhong doesn’t inquire about Youngjae’s urgent need to leave every day. It’s better that way, he thinks. Youngjae wouldn’t even know what to say in response.

 

By Friday of the second week, Junhong’s the first to leave the class with the rest of the inmates trailing behind him. Daehyun stays behind, legs crossed with a cordial smile directed at Youngjae. In his orange jumpsuit, Daehyun waves for the guard to wait outside.

 

Youngjae glances at the door and then back to Daehyun, “Do you have a question about this chapter, Jung?” He’s careful to keep his voice from rising.

 

Daehyun tilts his chair back, the front legs lift off the floor as he uses his knee and the table to anchor himself to the ground, “Not particularly. I just thought we could have a lil’ chat like you and Junhong used to share so often. You wouldn’t have any baked goods for me, would you?” He stretches his arms back, even under his uniform Youngjae can see the definition of his muscles. “Take a seat.”

 

Youngjae pulls a chair and sets it across the table from Daehyun.

 

“I don’t have much time to spe—”

 

Daehyun looks directly into his eyes, “Humor me,” he chuckles. He mouths the word please and brings his hands together like a person in prayer. “Besides, we both know you don’t have anything to go home to: you don’t wear a wedding ring, your ties are shittedly done like some bachelor, you work here of all godforsaken places, and oh—let’s not forget the way you coddle that cry baby Junhong. Trying to fill the void or something? You’re only a good few months away from getting a cat for your one bedroom apartment, am I right?” Daehyun shakes his head, “Of course I’m right.”

 

Youngjae grits his teeth, “Is this conversation going somewhere?”

 

Daehyun looks up to the ceiling and hums, “Don’t be so rude, Youngjae. We’re just having a nice conversation. Stay awhile and listen.”

 

“Should I now?” he says.

 

There it is, Youngjae thinks, that is the alpha male attitude that landed him in prison. Nothing about Daehyun was a secret. The stories of his bank heists were shared at the lunch table like Greek myths around a fire.

 

(“They say he robbed twenty banks.”

 

“That's only the amount he admits to; the police have higher estimates. I heard he stole up to half a million dollars.”

 

“Twenty plus banks and only that much? No way. I bet it was a cool million.”

 

“Probably two million.”

 

“Four million?”

 

Someone could probably guess a billion dollars and still they'd raise the amount in the next iteration of the tale.)

 

“Did you see that haircut the kid got?” Daehyun cups his own face. “Poor bastard was sitting the whole class time begging you to take notice of it. Pathetic.”

 

Youngjae sighs, “Daehyun, the relationship between my students and I are purely professional. Whether or not I notice a haircut is of no importance. Why do you care so much?”

 

“Call me a concerned citizen,” he runs his fingers through his hair, bringing his bangs back. “The boy—”

 

“He's twenty years old.” Youngjae interjects.

 

“The boy,” Daehyun continues with narrowed eyes. “He lives two cells down from me and his whining is keeping me up at night. I guess you can say I'm filing a noise complaint.”

 

Youngjae clears his throat, “Perhaps this is an issue more suited for the guards rather than your teacher.”

 

“I mean, sure I could go to those impassive fucks but what if they move the kid to solitary confinement to quiet him down.”

 

“Is this the legendary cunningness that sent over a dozen women to prison?”

 

“No. They didn't need any convincing,” Daehyun draws closer to Youngjae to where his breath ghosts over his lips. “Do you know why I'm in jail, Youngjae?”

 

Youngjae leans back, “One of your groupies turned you in.”

 

Daehyun lets out a husky laugh, “I turned myself in. I was a stockbroker in the city, Youngjae. I didn't need to steal from banks. But it gave me something to do, I suppose. What’s that one Disney movie say? Try everything?” he sits back down. “And getting all those stupid bank teller girls to help me was part of the fun. Can you believe they still send me love letters?”

 

And Youngjae can. Daehyun was handsome with broad shoulders, a strong angular jaw, and every and all attributes which Youngjae wished he possessed himself. He’s so slender in comparison. Youngjae has a terrifying suspicion that Daehyun’s wrist is probably even thicker than his own ankle. Added to that, as if dashing good looks weren’t enough, he is, what Youngjae considers, irritably charming. All conversations with him felt like pandering. Small talk was a privilege to beholden, one you worked for by keeping him interested and engaged. Daehyun also talked at you, not to you.

 

Which is why if Youngjae were to be removed from the conversation, the flow would not change at all.

 

“I’m leaving, Daehyun,” Youngjae attempts to get up but Daehyun swiftly pushes him back down to his seat by the shoulder.

 

Daehyun takes Youngjae’s face between his thumb and forefinger, squeezing his cheeks together such that his lips messily puckered. The force he applied made Youngjae feel as if the sides of his face were collapsing in on themselves. Daehyun’s dark brown eyes peered into his. Youngjae could make out every shade of auburn in them, along with his own dark silhouette being reflected back. He trembled in his grip, although he’d fight you about it.

 

“Always so cute, aren’t we? I’m not asking you to coddle the damn baby again. I can give half a fuck about him and his attachment issues. Make him fucking stop before I do.”

 

“How is this any of your business,” Youngjae says, however, it sounds garbled with his face between Daehyun’s fingers.

 

Daehyun shakes his head, “You dense motherfucker. Watching the kid suffer at first was fun but now he’s just a drag. So call me a busy body. Let’s do everyone a favor and bring back everyone’s favorite punching bag because you’re ruining my prison reprieve.”

 

“You’re deranged,” Youngjae let slip.

 

Daehyun rolls his eyes, “Honestly, it’s the system with these garbage for profit prisons. I’m going to be out in a couple months, Youngjae. Isn’t that the beauty of it all? Cut a deal with the prosecutors and turn in all those desperate girls and get a drastically reduced sentence. And you know what? They can’t even find where I invested all the cash or how much I even stole. So, what I guess I’m saying is,” he tightens his grip. “Don’t fucking cross me.”

 

Youngjae curls his fingers over Daehyun’s wrist and removes the firm grip he has upon him. Even with his hand gone, Youngjae can still feel the pressure that was once there, like a ghostly touch. His face is red in the areas he gripped him.

 

Trying to keep his heart from lunging out of his throat, Youngjae clears it and says, “I think it’s time I go and we pretend this conversation never happened.”

 

Daehyun releases a huff of air, “Whatever you say,” he walks out the door.

 

 

Youngjae’s not intimidated by him. Definitely not. So what if he sends out another fifty emails over the course of the weekend. Or calls in sick on Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday.

 

That coming Thursday in class, Youngjae walks in and sees all his students seated properly. He finds it a bit hard to breath, akin to having a weight resting on his diaphragm. He licks his chapped lips and announces to everyone of his coming departure at the end of the month. He smiles and looks over everyone, his eyes skipping over Junhong.

 

Daehyun’s the first to start off the applause. A slow and deliberate clapping. The others follow after him, congratulating their teacher.

 

The days leading up to his final session go along fine. Youngjae spends that time creating a lesson plan and briefing the new coming replacement about each student’s progress. He works hard to assemble a comprehensive summary for them. However, he leaves Junhong’s assessment blank. He had sat for hours wondering what to write but this was ultimately the end result. Dozens of crumpled and tattered pieces of paper littered his home's couch.

 

I’ll write to him, Youngjae thinks. He’ll send him letters and recommend books and things could be normal again. Well, as normal as being pen pals with someone in prison. He’ll apologize. Maybe.

 

On his last day, Youngjae’s finishes up the topic of integrals and watches the students walk out. Daehyun, who had slept the whole class, still hasn’t raised his head yet. Junhong is in his seat, fiddling with his fingers. Youngjae doesn’t say anything and packs up his supplies. His palms are sweating as his tongue weighs down in his mouth. He wonders what the appropriate words would be for Junhong.

 

Amongst the awkward chill, erupts the static of the two-way radio of the guard stationed at the door. There is a mess of codes being shouted with numbers, but Youngjae clearly understands the word “riot.” The man looks at the three remaining people in the class and decides that the two in there were the least harmless.

 

“Stay here,” the guard shouts, he rushes out the door in a frenzied panic.

 

Youngjae hears a resounding click from the door of the class.

 

The boom of tear gas canisters exploding reaches their room. He hears coughing, screaming, and chaos. Dear fucking god. No one had told Youngjae the protocol for a prison riot. But if the room is locked, he should presumably be safe.

 

Daehyun looks at Youngjae, eyes peering passed his crossed arms, laying on the table still. His hair is messy and tousled from his supposed nap. He looks like someone experiencing an average weekday.

 

“Calm down. They’re not going to do too much damage,” Daehyun yawns. “Now, let’s play marriage counselor and work out our differences.” He arises from his seat and tugs on Junhong’s arm harshly, picking up the younger boy from his chair.

 

Junhong’s legs are as unsteady as a newborn deer, made worse by being shoved towards Youngjae. Their bodies collide and Youngjae loses his footing and falls backwards to the ground hitting his head as Junhong clumsily grasps at the air, trying to stop his fall.

 

Daehyun clicks his tongue, “Oh, look what you did, Junhong. Remember, violence is what landed you here in the first place anyway,” he crouches down towards Youngjae and looks into his eyes and smiles. He grabs him by the hair and directs his face towards Junhong. “Don’t you just feel bad? It’s like you kicked a puppy. Sure, he’s a murderer, but we’ve all done crazy things before.”

 

Youngjae tries to scramble away from Daehyun’s touch and backs himself into a corner.

 

Junhong approaches him and meets Youngjae at his eye level, “I’m so sorry, Youngjae, I just didn’t know how to get you to talk to me again and you were going to be leaving and I’m always so nervous and…” Junhong rambles on with his hands covering the blush of his cheeks. “I’m really sorry for whatever I did. I didn’t mean to make you hate me,” the speed of which he talks increases with each syllable. “You’re so nice and patient all the time towards me even though I don’t deserve it. Was it ‘cause I didn’t get a haircut? I’m so sorry, really I am. I just liked it when you brushed my hair but see I got one,” he’s on the verge of tears.

 

Youngjae presses himself against the wall, overwhelmed by Junhong’s erratic speech. The white board hangs above his head. The cool metal touches the top of his hair, giving him an icy sting.

 

“Escapism is an art in here, Youngjae. Don’t take away the one thing he has. So kiss and make up.”

 

Youngjae can hardly hear Daehyun’s taunting over the sound of Junhong’s sobs. The tears fall out quicker than Junhong can wipe them away with the sleeves of his uniform. His wrists are dabbed with the salt. When Youngjae had once ran his thumb over his bruises he winced, yet didn’t say anything. He just quietly let Youngjae bandage him up. Here he was, though, with his arms wrapper over his head, on the floor, like some toddler.

 

Daehyun pouts, “Jesus, you’d have to be downright heartless to do something this shitty to a person.”

 

Through the crying, Junhong grabs Youngjae and buries his face deep into the nape of his neck. The tears streak down Youngjae’s collar. Junhong’s blunt nails dig into Youngjae’s back. He leaves marks despite the shirt covering his skin. He mumbles into him, his whispered breaths and lips cause Youngjae to tremble. Youngjae whines under the pressure.

 

Junhong pulls away and looks at him, “Am I hurting you? Oh god. No. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. Was it on the neck?” Junhong leans back down and lays kisses along his skin, punctuating each one with an added apology.

 

Youngjae tries to push Junhong away, hands on his broad chest. He’s uncomfortable with this new sensation. He had kissed a girl once when he was seven. It was a chaste peck, nothing so carnal as this. He gasps as Junhong makes his way up towards his lips.

 

Maneuvering himself behind him, Daehyun rests Youngjae on his lap, along with wrapping his arms underneath Youngjae’s like restraints. He keeps him in place while whispering into his ear, “It’s the least you could do.”

 

But Youngjae doesn’t hear his words because Junhong kisses him with a kind of desperation that he’s never experienced before. He wants to melt into it. He relaxes into Daehyun’s embrace as he relishes in the feeling of Junhong running his tongue over his.

 

“God, look at you acting like a virgin,” Daehyun hums, unbuttoning Youngjae’s dress shirt before moving onto his belt.

 

Junhong’s fingers run through his hair. So many things are happening in which Youngjae can’t keep up with. All he knows is that he loves the way Junhong moans in his mouth like he’s as flavorful as chocolate. He’s a delight on the palate.

 

His breath hitches in his throat when Daehyun grabs a hold of Youngjae’s erection. He strokes him over his underwear. A bit of precum wets his briefs. Daehyun’s rough hands are amazing. He can feel Daehyun’s own excitement grind up against him from behind. Youngjae moves in tempo and pushes himself further into it.

 

Youngjae’s panting when Junhong pulls away from him.

 

“Take his pants off, baby,” Daehyun instructs him, nibbling on his ear.

 

And so Youngjae does with fervor, lost in wanton heat.

 

When he pulls Junhong’s underwear aside, his eyes widen from the sheer size of his length. He should have expected this, though, given the other’s height. Daehyun grabs ahold of his jaw and directs Youngjae to Junhong’s cock.

 

“Open,” he licks the shell of Yongjae’s ear. He then guides his mouth such that Youngjae can engulf the entirety of Junhong’s length. Not without struggle, however. He gags along the girth as he goes deeper down his throat. Daehyun moves his head back and forth, his hands now twisted in his hair like a handle. “C’mon, with lips like yours you should suck dick better than that.” The speed quickens.

 

Youngjae’s eyes water as he deepthroats him. The way he whimpers around Junhong’s cock sends him over the edge and he cums in his mouth. “Fuck,” he exclaims, as his body shakes. A bit of it dribbles down Youngjae’s lips. It’s not as bitter as he expected.

 

“Good boy,” Daehyun praises. “Did you like your dessert?”

 

Youngjae’s head lulls to the side onto Daehyun’s shoulder. He looks up into Daehyun’s piercing gaze and nods obediently. He wants to lick his lips.

 

“Someone deserves a reward,” from the chest pocket of his uniform, Daehyun pulls out a small bottle of what Youngjae can only suppose is lubricant. “We can both have some fun while Junhong gathers his energy back up.” He squeezes a generous amount onto his fingers and only is it when Daehyun's circling his hole does he realize how cold the gel is.

 

He hushes him as he starts entering in one finger, placing kisses along his jaw as he does so. When a second finger arrives, Daehyun suckles on his neck. Three, and it’s a hickey he’s sure won’t go away even with a week of recovery time. But he forgets about all that when Daehyun’s hard cock slams against his prostate.

 

Daehyun picks him up and places him face down on one of the desks. He thrusts into him from behind. He tugs on his hair.

 

Youngjae thinks he might get split in two from the sheer force at which Daehyun ravages his body. The blows are softened when Junhong comes around the front and kisses him, absorbing all his moans and curses. Daehyun fills him just right. Youngjae gasps with every thrust. Daehyun's hand comes from the front and grabs a hold of Youngjae's erection. He squeezes it hard, denying him from cumming any time soon, despite any begging.

 

"Please, Daehyun," Youngjae pants. He doesn’t even care that he’s being so manhandled right now, or that red handprints will appear on his hips. Daehyun controls every little movement while Youngjae succumbs to him and Junhong freely. His whole mind is consumed by the need to orgasm and pleasing the two with his body. Youngjae doesn’t know when Daehyun cums but it is probably after his second orgasm and he’s a screaming mess. The table is coated in his fluids.

 

Junhong isn’t nearly as large as Daehyun, but he gets him off the same way. He’s more gentle and allows for Youngjae to adjust and moves in time with his thrusts. He kisses down along his spine.

 

Youngjae closes his eyes and waits for the riot outside to settle down.

 

 

“On a scale of one to killing your abusive dad: how good did that feel, kid?”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Cross posted from another site. Don't @ me, folks. Follow me on twitter maybe: @shumbuckett in which case yeah @ me.


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